


The Promise of Dawn

by jikanet_tanaka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, sad grieving vampire being sad, the rest of the hansa are mentioned but they do not appear in the story proper, the story goes as: "regis angstily writes things in his journal"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jikanet_tanaka/pseuds/jikanet_tanaka
Summary: A remorseful, grief-stricken vampire tries to pick up the pieces of his life after doing the unthinkable.Takes place after Blood and Wine, so spoilers for the books and game series as a whole.





	1. shians

Scattered bit of light peered through the black earth. The imprisoned vampire startled, suddenly snatched out of his forced slumber. His eyes darted back and forth furiously in their sockets as his sight became accustomed to the new bits of brightness. His ears—so ineffectual after being unused for so long—picked up a series of strange sounds. Emiel Regis (yes, that was his name, oh, he’d nearly forgotten the sound of his own name) shuffled stiff limbs in an attempt to move his body. It was useless; hundreds of pounds of earth still weighted down on his prostate form.

Emiel forced himself to stillness, concentrating instead on the noise coming from above. Yes, now that he was listening more closely, he could hear someone digging with a shovel. Emiel tried to scream, but only swallowed a mouthful of dirt for his trouble.

Soon, more light was trickling through. Fresh air tickled Emiel’s nostrils, bringing a slew of scents from the outside world. His mouth watered as if he’d stumbled upon a bucketful of freshly drawn blood. How long had it been since he had fed? Somehow, these last few minutes had been harder to endure than the long decades spent regenerating from his wounds.

Finally, a large shovelful of earth was removed from above his head, and silver moonlight poured through.

With a hiss, Emiel squeezed his poor sensitive eyes shut, his body trembling from both relief and distress. He tried to form words to address his savior, but only whimpers filtered through chapped lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” a deep voice came from the surface. “I am here to save you.”

Emiel cracked one eye open. An elderly, but kind-looking face was looking down at him. His sickly, ashen complexion betrayed the fact that he was a rather ancient member of Emiel’s people. The man was holding out a hand through the opening he had dug out.

The young vampire summoned all of his strength to reach out to his savior. Emiel could not help but sob as their fingers intertwined together.

It was the first time in over fifty years that Emiel felt the warmth of another living being.

 

* * *

 

Emiel’s savior—whose name remained a mystery through their association—made his position very clear early on in their relationship.

“What purpose does it serve,” the man had told his younger companion, “to indulge into something that strips us of our higher faculties and makes us as base and vile as beasts? No, I would rather live as a person and not as an animal.”

In other words, the Humanist completely refrained from drinking blood.

The concept was not so foreign to Emiel. Only the weak-willed and the depraved consumed blood on a regular basis (a shameful Emiel had belonged in this very category, not so long ago). In fact, more than half of their species did not care to drink from a sentient being.

But the master differed from them in his reasons for doing so.

“Our people are trespassers,” the elderly vampire had explained to Emiel. “We are guests of sort, of this world’s denizens. We must never overstay our welcome.”

“So you do not hurt humans because you want to stay in their good graces?” Emiel had then recalled his torment at the hands of the wrathful mob of peasants, and his stomach had lurched in remembered terror.

A sad smile had played on the master’s lips. “Spoken like a true vampire. No, I treat mortals the way I wish them to treat me. As equals.”

“But we are not equal,” Emiel had inelegantly blubbered.

The Humanist’s only response had been a chuckle. “Do you mean to imply that we are superior? Recently, I have begun to question that assumption. We are a long-lived people, yet many of us spend their eternity chasing vices that only offer the most instant of gratifications. We keep our noses out of the other races’ affairs, sneering at their supposed inadequacies, yet choose to maintain our society in a state of stasis that destroys creativity and fosters indulgence. Indeed, how many times have you heard of a vampire physician revolutionising the medicinal arts with a new remedy? Or of a vampire minstrel composing ballads that touch the hearts of audiences both present and future? Or of a vampire builder pouring their deathless being into a marvel of architecture that will stand the test of the ages?”

The normally verbose Emiel had been too distraught by the implications of his master’s words to think of a fitting response.

“You see?” the man had then concluded. “Yes, there’s a certain fundamental difference between our two sets of species, one that makes our life experiences completely distinct from one another. But does that mean a single vampire’s life is more valuable, more _meaningful_ , than a human’s, or an elf’s, or a dwarf’s? I most certainly doubt it…”

That was the gist of the Humanist’s philosophy. The old vampire, as it quickly became apparent, was a traveling scholar of sort—knowledgeable in a variety of topics such as ethics, medicine, natural sciences and politics. Emiel, intrigued and humbled by the man’s unconventional ideals, followed him across the entire continent in an effort to break off his destructive addiction to blood. Soon, he had reasons to suspect that his master happened to be one of the fabled Unseen Elders—in other words, one of the most ancient and powerful vampires currently walking this earth. The Humanist, although amused by his pupil’s speculations, never confirmed nor dismissed Emiel’s theory.

After more than a century of journeying together, Emiel’s master took him aside to announce that they would now have to part ways.

“Ah, my friend,” the Humanist had said with a chuckle at the sight of Emiel’s expression, “there’s no need to be so distressed. You are quite the resourceful young man. I am sure you will do fine on your own.”

“I… well, if you believe it is for the best.” Deep down, however, Emiel had been seized by a lingering fear. One that had shaped every decision made in his many years of living, from the monstrous binges of his youth to his more recent attempt at pacifism. “Won’t you get lonely, master?”

The Humanist snorted out a laugh, seeing right through Emiel’s half-hearted deflection. “You have an agreeable disposition, Emiel. I don’t doubt for a second that you will find yourself more companions to brighten your existence.”

“Will I?” Emiel responded a little too bitterly. “Most of the vampires we’ve met in our travels mocked us for our way of life. Fangless freaks, they called us. As for humans… well, mortality is a rather large stumbling block to building long-lasting relations with them, isn’t it?”

“Only if you believe it so. You will grieve the deaths of your mortal friends, certainly, but once you’ve made peace with their passing, you will feel all the more enlightened for the moments you’ve shared with them. And so the anguish you’ve felt upon their loss will only diminish to an enduring, but faint ache. Trust me, Emiel. We are social animals. We cannot shun the company of others without harming the well-being of our psyche.”

“If you feel that way, then why leave?” _Then, why leave me…?_

The master’s already clouded eyes grew even mistier. “If I may put it bluntly, I am old and weary.” The old vampire then patted the mountain of luggage he carried on his back, inside of which his most prized possessions could be found: a series of journals categorizing all of his findings and theories. “I must also find a way to make heads and tails out of these jumbled notes of mine. Perhaps amidst my ramblings there is something of worth I can share to the world.” The Humanist’s mouth struggled to form a tired smile. “But more than anything I wish to rest. I wish to sleep, as the humans do. I wish to find eternal silence.”

A chill had crawled down Emiel’s spine at the strangeness of this statement. “I see,” he had said, voice strangling in his throat. “Farewell, then, master. I hope that we will meet again soon.”

“Farewell, Emiel Regis,” the Humanist had replied.

Emiel never saw his master again.


	2. thesans

 

* * *

_"If there is no death, does life exist?"_

* * *

 

A slew of contradictory thoughts filled Regis’ head as he entered a rather ramshackle village built on the outskirts of Vicovaro. After taking a long, deep breath to steer his mind toward stillness, the vampire tugged on the reins of his mule to advance further on the stone path. Regis had not named the animal as he had done with Draakul; his plan was to sell the poor beast as soon as possible to raise funds to pay for new lodgings within the city.

The villagers sent him inquisitive looks as he walked through their midst. Children paused their games to stare at him, eyes as round as coins. Quite possibly he was the first stranger in a long time to set foot inside their rickety town. The place itself was drab; the hovels boasted none of the bright colours Regis had come to love from Toussaintois architecture, and the people wore dull browns and blacks, as befitting of citizens of the Nilfgaardian empire.

Regis ignored the collective curiosity directed at his person and only kept walking down the road stretching ahead of him. Soon, however, the sun had begun to disappear beyond the horizon, and so the barber-surgeon realized it would be wiser to stay the night at an inn located outside the city walls. After booking a room, Regis immediately climbed upstairs, politely declining to take a seat at the innkeeper's table for dinner.

Once he was in his room, Regis threw the content of his bag onto the desk. With a relieved sigh he grabbed the object he had been looking for: a simple journal bound in leather. On the first page, he had written in an unsure hand: _My last thoughts before I succumb to sleep._

Quill and paper in hand, Regis looked out the window. From this height, the barber-surgeon could see the keep of Darn Dyffra atop a distant hill. The great castle towered above the countryside with a prestige that only the ancestral seat of an old aristocratic family could muster. _Cahir’s childhood home_ , Regis thought sadly. Grief and fondness alike weighted down his chest as he lost himself in reminiscences. Soon, the faces of other departed friends re-emerged from the recesses of his mind. Milva. Angoulême. And worse of all, Dettlaff.

There was the sound of paper ripping; startled, Regis looked down, dimly registering that he had just torn his journal in two. Again came creeping the realization that had driven him in exile to Vicovaro in the first place.

His master had been wrong. His master had lied to him.

Because no matter how hard he tried, Regis could not get his phantoms to leave him be.

_Milva, sitting next to Regis after her child had bled out of her, their shoulders brushing together as she stared ahead in catatonic silence. “Don’t tell the others,” she had murmured to him, “but I’m glad you stuck around, you insufferable son-of-a-bitch.”_

_(Milva, an arrow protruding out of her abdomen, the light leaving her blue eyes as a weeping Angoulême implored her to live…)_

_Cahir, bringing Regis some herbs he’d picked up in the wood and asking the barber-surgeon if he could use these to make new poultices or remedies. “If you ever find yourself with a bit of free time, could you teach me some of your knowledge?” the Nilfgaardian had often asked, his cheeks colouring up in a way that betrayed his lack of years._

_(Cahir, standing tall and proud despite his terror, drawing his sword to challenge a foe against which he could not win so young Cirilla could flee and find her father…)_

_Angoulême, slapping Regis’ back and demanding that he sang bawdy songs with her, bursting into loud laughter when he gently chided her instead. “Don’t you patronize me, you old prick!” she had exclaimed. “I’m not a little kid anymore!”_

_(Angoulême, afraid and cold and bleeding to death in Cirilla’s arms, her young dreams fluttering out of existence like a bright but all too brief flicker of light…)_       

And of course, Regis could never forget his mad dash through Stygga Castle—how he’d slaughtered his way through Vilgefortz’s minions, drunk on the sweetness of blood and the maddening taste of power it brought. He’d grinned a monstrous, hateful smile, teeth dripping with gore, when he had finally come upon a certain disfigured sorcerer. A raven-haired woman and a pale man clad in armour had been fighting Vilgefortz. _Geralt_ , was all Regis’ delirious mind had been able to repeat at the sight of the three combatants. The crazed magician had been on the verge of killing Geralt and Lady Yennefer, Geralt’s love. Regis had lunged forward with extended claws, rage and grief and fear pouring out of him in a beastly shriek.

Regis’ talons had torn out a chunk out of Vilgefortz’s face. Triumph had coursed through the vampire’s veins, warm like the promise of dawn, as the sorcerer keeled over, screaming and cursing. Thinking back to all the blood he’d spilled, Regis had made a vow; he would protect Geralt, this strange human who had looked past Regis’ monstrous nature and called him a friend. He would keep the witcher alive so the man could have his happy ending alongside his beloved sorceress and the girl they had raised as a daughter. He would not fail him like he had failed Milva and Cahir and Angoulême. He would not, he could not—

The vampire’s every thoughts had been consumed by his frenzy, and so he had not noticed that Vilgefortz had drawn himself to his full height, blood gushing out of the wound on his cheek. Yennefer had cried out to Regis, but the latter had not listened. The sorcerer’s lopsided visage had distorted in an even more grotesque mask as he bellowed the formula of his next spell.

And Regis’ world devolved to an existence of pure agony.

The magical flare blasted the vampire across the room, and he collided violently with a stone column, his spine breaking with a resounding _snap_. The spell melted off his skin with the force and the speed of a bolt of thunder, exposing the softer flesh beneath. The liquids inside his body heated to a tortuous boil; the vampire’s eyeballs exploded from sheer pressure, while every blood vessel burst open, spilling their content in a stream of gore. The pillar of flame scorched the muscles, the sinews, the nerves; the violence of the explosion ground the bones and the cartilage into fine, glass-like dust.

And through it all, Regis burned and pleaded and _screamed_ , fully conscious of each excruciating second of his torment. He screamed out to Geralt and Yennefer, he screamed out to friends who were long gone, he screamed out in a lost, ancient language unknown to human ears, _please, make it stop, make it end, it hurts, please, it hurts, Master, help me, Apa, Ati, help me, help me, let me DIE_ —

Then, the searing white heat stopped, and the ice-cold darkness came.

For a time that had seemed to stretch into infinity, the mind of the individual once known as Emiel Regis had hovered between a vague awareness of the mortal realm and a terrifying glimpse of the unknown world that came after. He could not see, could not hear, could not smell—the entirety of nearly five centuries’ worth of existence had whittled down to a single primal fear, the simplest of them all.

_Please, don’t let me die..._

_Please, don’t let me die here alone..._

Then, out of the blackness a pale hand had appeared. Though Regis had had no eyes, he had seen crimson flowing from its wrist. Though he'd had no nose, he had smelled the sweet temptation of the blood as it dripped downward to him. Though he'd had no mouth, he had drunk his fill of the precious liquid; it had seeped through the very essence of his being, injecting pure, undiluted lifeforce in every organ, every cell of his body.

When, finally, Emiel Regis had returned to the world of the living, it had been to look into the haggard, worried face of a blue-eyed vampire...

_Dettlaff, carrying Regis’ mangled carcass back to his home in Nazair and caring for him as the barber-surgeon recovered in bed, weak and useless as a newborn._

_“My companions… my…_ hansa _…” the words had escaped Regis’ mouth in a pained moan. “They’re gone. They’re… dead.”_

_Dettlaff had put his hand on Regis’ shoulder, its weight an ever-growing comfort._

_“You must think me mad,” Regis had continued, “to be so distraught by the deaths of a few mere humans.”_

_“No,” Dettlaff’s voice had come oh-so-softly. “I understand you perfectly. I loved a woman, once. I… I considered her a member of my pack, even though she was human. Every moment I rue the day she was taken from me.”_

_His blue eyes had been so guileless then, so earnest in his remembered pain…_

_(It had been very much the opposite when he had launched himself at Regis many years later, monstrous canines bared as he screamed in rage over his friend’s betrayal…)_

Regis’ journal slipped from his fingers, the discarded pages fluttering around his now tense form. The scenery outside the window became a blur as the vampire leaned forward; he pushed himself off the desk for support, trying to inhale deeply to will himself into a state of calm. His attempts were in vain: the flux of emotions pressing down his chest was getting heavier, crushing his ribcage in a way that made it difficult to breath. He hissed out in pain, his fingernails racking the wood of the desk as he struggled to remain upright.

What remained of Regis’ journal laid sprawled in scattered bits on the floor. Ignoring the pain constricting his torso, the barber-surgeon endeavoured to gather the pages despite his shaking hands. Meticulously, he bound them together, the repetitive gesture soothing his jittery nerves. By the time he had completed his task, Regis had stopped trembling. He sat down behind the desk, taking his quill in hand.

 _Despite my prior misgivings, it seems that I am not some sort of undead monstrosity,_ the vampire penned down _. Indeed, I appear to be fully alive, as my body just now eloquently demonstrated to me._ He glanced at the moon hanging in the sky outside and felt a smile ghosting on his lips. _Perhaps I can attribute a meaning in my life even if it is not tied to a finite purpose. Even if my very existence defies all logical explanation…_

Because twice now, Regis had crawled out of the claws of death. Twice now, he had survived while other people _—better_ people—had not been so lucky.

Twice now, he had proved that he was nothing more but an abomination to the world’s natural order.

 

* * *

_"Hate is a very interesting feeling. I have noticed that people improve themselves with it to great effect."_

* * *

 

The Vicovarians, Regis noted one night in his journal, rather disliked the people who came from the Empire’s heartland.

The converse was also true. Nobody looked down on the provincial Nilfgaardians quite like the imperial capital’s citizens did. If one listened to a true-and-tried denizen of the City of Golden Towers, then Maecht, Ebbing, Mettina and all the other conquered territories made poor examples of what a proper Nilfgaardian province should be. On the other hand, collective memory ran deep within the fiefs and vassals of the southern empire; after all, once upon a time, they had lived under their own authority, free of the emperor’s yoke. That sort of grudge was not one to die easily.

Of course, all of this resentment went out the proverbial window the moment Nordlings came into the picture.

“You’re from Brugge?” said the man whose arm Regis was settling in a sling. “Far from home, aren’t you?”

“My family comes from Toussaint, actually,” replied Regis. It wasn’t exactly a lie—after all, the portal connecting this continent to the vampiric homeworld had opened not far from Beauclair. “But they moved to Dillingen when I was very young.”

The man let out a guffaw. “What’s a Nordling doing so far south, then?”

 _Evading my people’s wrathful justice_ , Regis thought wryly. Still, in a display of terseness that would have surprised the members of his old hansa, the vampire bit down his tongue and kept quiet.

“It’s not your business, Aled, that’s what it is,” grumbled an old woman sitting on a bench nearby. Along with a young woman holding a child in her lap, she was the only patient remaining in Regis’ clinic. “The master surgeon can go wherever he pleases.”

“I bet you were surprised when you got here, weren’t you?” the man pressed on. Smugness and contempt mixed within his voice to offer a truly putrid amalgam. “The Nordlings probably have a thing or two to learn from us, huh?”

The young mother nodded. “The practise of medicine must be quite different in Northern countries, for one,” she mused aloud.

“Medicine, and some other things too,” said the man called Aled. “I’m not looking to offend, master, but I’ve heard strange stories about—”

“Aled!” The old lady scooted a bit on her seat and gave the man a swat on the leg with her cane. Aled growled in pain, but he was laughing not a second later. “You can’t say things like that about his own people. Think of your manners! What would your poor mam say? I know she raised you better than this!”

“Pff,” said Aled, “as if you had any love in your heart for Nordlings, Ffion.”

The old woman’s head drooped forward, casting shadows all over her face. “That’s beside the point. Nobody in their right mind loves the Nordlings. You know how they… they…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “How they sent my boy back in pieces. Hacked and chopped and torn apart, like a mere pig for slaughter. They can all die for all I care.” Ffion must have remembered proper etiquette, for she then offered a fake, feeble smile to Regis. “Well, perhaps not all of them, not truly. I must say, you are a testament to your people, master surgeon.”

“My husband also fought in the war and he…” the young mother began in a babble. Immediately as the words left her mouth, the blood rose to her cheeks, and she fell silent. She clasped her son closer to her chest; the boy regarded his mother with a glassy-eyed stare in response.

Regis sighed; the tension had grown thick enough to cut with a knife. Wordlessly, he rose to his feet and surveyed his patients with a weary look that could offer a hint of his true age to a discerning eye.

“For me,” enunciated Regis, “a patient is a patient. Nordling, Nilfgaardian, human, elf, dwarf… it doesn’t matter. I will treat anyone who ask for my aid.”

Aled rolled sceptical eyes, but Ffion patted Regis on the arm. “What a lovely sentiment! Perhaps we should all strive to think as you do.”

“Thank you,” Regis replied humbly.

The old lady let out a chuckle. “I do hope you will stay with us in Vicovaro a little while longer. Why, I believe you’ll fit right in! If you hadn’t told us you were a foreigner, I would have never noticed. I’ve never seen a Nordling speak our language so fluently.”

Regis pressed his lips together in a closed-mouthed smile. Not so long ago, he had laughed freely among human company, unafraid to show those ghastly teeth of his, but now…

“I always adapt myself to local customs,” said Regis. “I’d rather not stand out.”

“That’s how it should always go,” Aled agreed in a growl. This time, neither Ffion nor the young mother argued against him. “When in Nilfgaard, do as the Nilfgaardians do. If not, why come here in the first place, huh?”

“That seems to be the wisest course of action, yes,” was the surgeon’s half-hearted reply. “I will try to heed your sage counsel in the coming future.”

Of course, Regis could not show it, but he was glad when his last patients (especially Aled) departed from his clinic later in the evening, finally giving him a well-deserved moment of peace and quiet.

Nilfgaardians hated Nordlings, and Nordlings hated Nilfgaardians. Three successive wars had cemented that basic truth. But Regis knew that they would easily put aside old history to unite together if they happened to learn of his true nature.

 _After all_ , as he wrote, _humans hate nonhumans even more than they hate their own kind; it is a simple, immutable fact of the world._

 

* * *

_"Sometimes I would like to stop thinking."_

* * *

 

“Dettlaff, would you please sit down? You’re making me dizzy with all that pacing of yours.”

To Regis’ great amusement, Dettlaff had immediately slumped into the chair next to Regis’ cot, obedient like a well-trained puppy. In the small space of Dettlaff’s woodland abode, Regis could not help but be keenly aware of his friend’s every move, a fact that made it quite difficult to find proper sleep.

“What ails you, my friend?” Regis had asked. “I might not be able to get out of this bed, but, if you can pardon a bit of vanity, I happen to know the remedies to several aches and illnesses, both mental and physical.”

Dettlaff stared at him with unblinking blue eyes. From outside came the melodious duet of a bruxa and a tawny owl. Not much farther away, Regis could also hear two katakans conversing through a series of hisses and screeches.

“I would… like to stop thinking so much,” Dettlaff eventually said.

“Oho! An inability to focus, added to an unending stream of thoughts… typical symptoms of an anxious, sensitive soul! I can present to you several options that would allay your mental burdens, my friend. Would you care to hear some of them?”

“Do as you wish. You are dying to go on another long tangent, I can tell,” a deadpan Dettlaff replied.

Regis ignored the good-natured barb. “Physical activity is something I can prescribe. You will burn off excess energy, leaving you with little desire to exert yourself more by focusing on your worries. Meditation is also a path to explore.”

Already, the tensions were dissipating from Dettlaff’s face. “Mhm.”

Regis’ gaze flicked to the ring on his friend’s finger. “My master—the one whose ring you wear—developed another approach. Before going to sleep, he would often jot down his passing thoughts and daily observations. According to him, it helped keep his mind clear and organized.”

“Did it work?”

“It certainly did no harm. But, of course, what’s important is to find what’s more suitable to your own particular needs.” Regis snapped his fingers. “Ah! I had almost forgotten! There is an additional recommendation I can give you.”

True to his taciturn nature, Dettlaff said nothing as Regis looked at him expectantly.

“Confiding to a friend always help,” the barber-surgeon had finished with a small flourish. “Especially if it is to relieve oneself from the terrible weight of grief.”

Dettlaff’s eyes had softened from a stormy blue to the delicate shade of a midday sky. “I see. Thank you, Regis.”

Of course, several years afterwards, Regis himself failed to follow his own counsel.

 _Grief, yes,_ he wrote as he thought back to this particular conversation, alone in the cramped space of his bedchamber in Vicovaro. The place was as cluttered as Dettlaff’s modest home had been, with various books and vials and tools littering the shelves and the floor in precarious piles. Once upon a time, the prim and proper intellectual inside of Regis would have been appalled at the sight of such a mess. Now…

Now, he could barely keep his own brain from hoarding unfounded worries and imagined fears.

 _Grief and rage and helplessness_ , the words flowed onto the page, _and, oh, I’m sorry I could not save you, my friend, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ —

 

* * *

_"If we were to create a god as the humans have, what would he be like?"_

* * *

 

In truth, Regis knew very little of the homeworld.

His mother had been very young when she’d been snatched from her universe alongside a thousand other members of her people. His father, on the other hand, had come to existence only after their transition to this strange new world—he had been the first vampire child to be born in exile, in fact. Neither of them had much stories of their true home to tell their son. Ati had learned a few lullabies from her own mother, but that had been the full extent of her knowledge.

“Do we have a god?” little Emiel had asked his parents one day, after they had stumbled upon a celebration observing the words and deeds of some human prophet. “Do we have someone we can pray to?”

Apa and Ati had exchanged a glance.

“Not that we know of, no,” Apa had said.

“If we had any gods,” Ati had added, “how could our prayers reach them, now that we are trapped within this wretched place?”

“No,” Apa had concluded, “we do not have any gods. And we do not need them.”

Their explanation had not sated Regis’ curiosity. Every culture in the north had devised a pantheon of deities to allay their fears of the unknown; Mother Melitele, Kreve the Sky Father, Modron Freya and the moonlit goddess Lilvani were all names that Nordling children had learned at their parents’ knees. Even a long-lived, magically powerful race such as the elves followed some sort of superstitious belief. Why would it not be so for vampires?

Regis’ puzzlement only grew after he moved to Vicovaro. Here, religion was a topic that was simply impossible to avoid; the cult of the Great Sun permeated every layer of Nilfgaardian society, from simple everyday colloquialisms (he could not count how many times he had heard someone exclaiming ‘by the Great Sun!’) to the very manner they gave tribute to their emperor. Still, as a vampire—that is, a creature more suited to the mysteries of the night—the idea of worshipping the solar disk was more than a little ludicrous to Regis. Despite this, the vampire often found himself attending religious services, if only to get a covert chuckle or two out of the entire thing.

Whenever he left the temple, however, Regis would always be seized by a strange mood. Once, he had made a rather tasteless jape in Geralt’s company, bragging to his friend that his vampiric powers and near-miraculous regenerative abilities could almost cause a naïve soul to believe him a demi-god. Now, however, that Regis had seen with his own two eyes what a single higher vampire could do when angered…

Well, it made him very grateful that vampire gods did not truly exist.

 

* * *

_"People justify bad deeds by good intentions. I'm not sure if there is greater idiocy"._

* * *

 

Every time the citizens of Vicovaro trembled in fear over the story of a monster terrorizing the countryside, Regis thought of Geralt.

Not too many witchers dared to venture south. The sudden and unexplained disappearance of the only school in Nilfgaard (the School of the Viper, Regis believed it was called) remained a sore spot for the Nordling monsterslayers. The Vicovarians were thus left on their own in their fight against giant centipedes, draconids and other nasty things that went bump in the night.

Still, whenever a reward was offered for the slaying of a dangerous beast, a small part of Regis would hope and pray. Perhaps one day Geralt would come striding into town, twin blades strapped to his back and scowl firmly put into place on his grizzled visage. Perhaps he would then steal Regis away from his dreary routine, if only for a brief, shining moment.

But of course, this would never happen. In all probabilities, Geralt was warm and safe by the hearth at Corvo Blanco, sipping a glass of fine wine with his lady and regaling young Cirilla with tales of past exploits.

Or, at least, that’s what Regis wanted to _believe_.

Just as he had wanted to believe that the Beast’s killings would stop if they could reunite a pair of lovers separated by the sadistic whims of a blackmailer. Just as he had wanted to believe that Dettlaff could be reasoned with, a mistake that had led to the slaughter of hundreds of innocents.

Just as he wanted to believe that murdering one friend to save another had truly been the only acceptable choice to make.

(Inside his journal, a page’s worth of text read: _‘I did what I had to do, I did what I had to do, I did what I had to do_ — _’_ )

 

* * *

  _"I would drink the freshly squeezed blood of an infant. I know I can't, but I hope that its velvety taste will send me to sleep."_

* * *

 

Whenever sleep started to elude him for too long, Regis often skimmed through previous entries of his journal, hoping that a flicker of wisdom from his past self would serve to illuminate the road twisting ahead.

Sometimes, however…

 _Oh, how I long for the delightful stupidity of drunken stupor,_ were the horrific words that greeted Regis’ eyes tonight. _A child’s blood would do best—light, with no bitter notes to spoil the overall bouquet._

Immediately, Regis threw the damn thing across the room with a bestial roar that frightened the poor ravens perched along the edge of his window. Regis staggered backward to his cot and sat down, hugging his knees against his chest.

He did not write nor read anything else for the reminder of the night.

 

* * *

_"I strive to live like a person, and it means that I have ceased to feel good among people as well as among my own. Maybe I made a big mistake."_

* * *

 

“What have you done?” Orianna had asked Regis, her voice soft with disbelief and condemnation. “What have you done?”

Regis had not intended to meet another vampire before leaving the now dangerous confines of Toussaint. Indeed, to have Orianna irrupting in his safe haven at Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery mere moments after Geralt’s departure had definitely not been part of his plans.

“What have you done, Emiel?” Orianna had repeated in a growl that was decidedly less friendly. “Why has the Elder declared you anathema?”

Regis remained immobile at his desk, unwilling to acknowledge her presence. In stubborn silence, he continued to stare at the empty page in front of him. He had been agonizing over what to write ever since Geralt had offered his goodbyes.

In a span of a heartbeat, a puff of silver smog crossed the mausoleum. Orianna emerged right next to Regis; she loomed over his seated form, dark eyes ablaze with enmity.

“I will not ask a thousand times. Is it true what they say, Emiel?”

An ink blot was forming beneath Regis’ quill. His pallid face twisted into a hateful sneer as he finally answered.

“Yes, it is true. I’ve killed Dettlaff. I’ve erased him from existence.” _I’ve inflicted on him the fate from which he saved me…_

Orianna faltered on her feet. “You… you fool! All of this… done only to save a human? You… you _degenerate!_ ” She then clasped her hand in front of her mouth, shame haunting her lovely features.

Regis looked up to meet her gaze; the brown eyes were wide open, showing a sort of vulnerability that he had never associated with this formidable specimen of a vampiress. Fear and revulsion radiated from her in equal parts. Orianna was afraid _for_ him, Regis was surprised to find, but she found him repulsive as well.

“That human is my friend,” Regis said quietly. “He is my friend and I promised to stand by him no matter what.”

“You killed one of our own! You killed your blood brother! You… you’ve fed upon the flesh of one of your clanmates!”

Regis’ protest was as weak as the one he’d given to the vengeful bruxae who had assaulted him only a few hours prior. “What other choice did I have?”

Orianna tossed up her hands in the air. “We are not humans! What made you think this was an acceptable course of action in the first place?”

Regis stayed silent in the face of her accusation. Vampires dealt physical and mental torture to those who defied the untold laws of the clan. The gift of oblivion was strictly a human torment.

“You have not changed one bit,” scoffed Orianna. “Despite all your high-and-mighty posturing, you are still the short-sighted and immature adolescent who got himself beaten to an inch of his life by a flock of humans with torches and pitchforks. Only, this time you’ve managed to earn yourself the scorn of our entire people as well. And all of this over a human who makes his living killing the likes of us!”

Regis regarded her coldly. “Then, according to customs,” he calmly intoned, “it would be well within your rights to strike me down and call it justice, Orianna.”

“You know I could not land a single blow on you, no matter how hard I tried. The difference in power between us is—”

“I assure you, I would offer no resistance.”

A crease marred Orianna’s brow. “The two dead bruxae outside tell me otherwise.”

“That was Geralt’s handiwork. Well, it’s true that I also fought to defend myself, but… it’s not the same. I don’t think I would be able to live with myself if I harmed you in any way, Orianna.”

The vampiresss ran her long fingers alongside his arm. The tender gesture brought back bright memories—memories of a better time, or more accurately, of a life long gone.

“Still, your witcher would gladly cut me down,” said Orianna. “He’s all but promised to come visit me, one day.”

“Orianna…” Regis had risen precipitately from his seat. “What have you _done?_ ” Time and time again, he had borne witness to Geralt’s integrity—both of the witcher’s swords, silver and steel, were reserved to those made monstrous by their deeds, not by their manner of birth.

Orianna had opened her mouth in a vixen’s smile, showing two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“Nothing that should offend a reasonable member of our people, I think,” she had answered him, specks of red glistening on her long canines.

It had been the last time that Regis had laid eyes on another vampire—and perhaps indeed it would be the last time he would ever meet a representative of his own species. As the barber-surgeon laid down in bed with his journal propped up his knees, a great lassitude washed over him. Suddenly, it seemed as if each of his senses was under assault: the asinine noises of human life scraped at his eardrums, the rancid stenches of human bodies rankled his nose, the drab artistry of human craftsmanship offended his keen eyesight… it was too much, it was just too much.

 _Perhaps Orianna was right,_ he wrote. _Perhaps in my desire to do right by the humans I have only managed to become an outsider to both worlds._

_Perhaps I am still indeed the clueless fool who would have committed any atrocity if it meant winning his peers’ love and acceptance._

 

* * *

_"I have always wanted to write: I am very tired and fuck it all."_

* * *

 

Sometimes, after a daring excursion to one of the many taverns Vicovaro had to offer (most of which would have earned Dandelion and Zoltan’s scorn, Regis had to admit), the barber-surgeon would start to wonder if cultivating a swearing habit could be profitable.

One night, upon returning from such an establishment, the vampire channeled his inner Milva (or his inner Angoulême, or even his inner Geralt) and wrote: _Fuck angry peasants with pitchforks, fuck crazy one-eyed sorcerers, fuck stubborn duchesses, fuck manipulative two-faced floozies, and most of all, fuck this persistent and unending case of insomnia_ —

Regis could not say if the experience was conclusive (he would have to repeat it multiple times in comparable conditions to get indisputable results), but he could not deny the cathartic factor of the whole venture.

In the end, Milva and Angoulême might have had the right idea all along.

 

* * *

_"People don't think about the present. They usually remember old times or worry about the future."_

* * *

 

“What is it that you’re writing, master?” Emiel had once asked the Humanist. “Are you making a memoir of sort?”

The old vampire had clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “It’s not important, Emiel. Tend to the flames, the campfire is dying.”

Emiel had dutifully fulfilled his master’s request, before commenting, “I’ve seen you sketching a few forest plants earlier. You have quite a keen eye for details.”

“Hmm. I’m making a study of useful herbs and roots. The scholars at Oxenfurt are sadly quite behind modern times on the topic.”

“Useful herbs? As in, to make remedies and narcotics and such?” Emiel’s brows had furrowed. “These substances usually have little to no effect on us, haven’t they?”

“No. That doesn’t make them any less useful.”

“Oh.” Emiel had smiled. “You really do want to make the world a better place, don’t you, master? I must say I find it quite… inspiring.”

For a moment, the only sound that had filled the clearing had been the soft crackle of the wood as it burned. Eventually, the master’s voice had come in a murmur, “Please do not put me on such a high pedestal. Everything I do is for the sake of my own personal peace of mind. And so, any joy I might find in my good deeds is… _spoiled_ , one could say, by my reasons for doing so.”

“But what matters most is the result, not the intent, isn’t it?”

“No.” The old vampire’s mouth had twitched in a scowl. “Yes. I don’t know.”

The Humanist had not uttered another word for the remainder of the night. It had all seemed so depressing to Emiel, this idea of living with your past always looming over your future like an overreaching shadow. He had secretly vowed to never fall prey to this torment.

Several centuries later, Regis wasn’t quite sure he had made good on his promise. His days in Vicovaro were spent helping the human masses in any way he could, as if he could compensate for every life he had taken by saving an equal number of people.

Of course, this was all wishful thinking.

An elderly lady would give Regis her effusive thanks after he’d help cure a rather nasty cough, and all he would see would be another woman’s empty eyes after he had accidentally snapped her neck, lost in his frenzy. A young man’s family would gather around him and weep in joy for his recovery, and all Regis would hear would be another youth’s screams as Emiel and his friends circled around him, laughing. A mother holding her newborn baby would look at Regis with grateful tears in her eyes, and all he would feel is the ever weakening pulse of a girl the same age as he drank from the wound on her neck.

 _No_ , was the conclusion he jotted down in his journal, _it appears impossible for a creature as long-lived as I to truly learn to appreciate the present moment._

Once again he was struck by the sheer impracticality of immortality. Regis thought of his master, of the haze that had seemed to perpetually cloud the old vampire’s gaze, of the sheer longing that had exuded from the man’s voice on the rare occasions he had mentioned their long-lost home, of the way his shoulders had strained under the notion of spending the rest of his eternity as an expatriate ill-suited to the strangeness of his new world.

_No wonder so many of us decide to live as mindless monsters rather than men…_

 

* * *

_"I have a feeling that my friend Dettlaff will die. I am sad."_

* * *

 

Regis’ bedchamber offered a lovely view of the gallows in Vicovaro’s central square. On hot, humid summer days, the stench of decomposing bodies would easily drift to Regis’ clinic, making some of his already queasy patients even more liable to vomit their guts at the vampire’s feet.

It did not help that the Vicovarians—or, more accurately, Nilfgaardians in general—seemed to treat capital punishment as an excuse for celebration. Every week, the square would be filled with a vociferous crowd clamouring for justice—and blood. Rapists and enemies of the state were the most hated out of all the condemned; the people would pelt the men and women walking to their deaths with rotten fruit and hurl insults at them that would have made the most hardened of Skelligans blush.

For his part, Regis tried to avoid hangings whenever he could; he had found out early in his life that a mob’s frenzied thirst for violence tended to feed into his own latent bloodlust.

A bloodlust that had grown only more potent the moment Regis had sank his teeth into Dettlaff’s throat and feasted on every drop of his friend’s lifeforce…

And so, Regis could never pass in front of the gibbet without reliving the exact moment of Dettlaff’s death. On that night, Regis had declared himself his friend’s judge, jury and executioner. Always, the barber-surgeon would think, _I did what I had to do, he would have been put to death anyway per human laws, I had no choice_ —and always another voice in his head would shriek in response, _if he had to die to atone for his sins, then why are you still alive, Emiel Regis?_

 _Because other people believed in me_ , was the only sensible answer Regis’ tired brain could find. _My master. Dettlaff. Geralt. My hansa._ For a reason Regis could not fathom, they had wished for his continued existence—and, in the Humanist’s and Dettlaff’s cases, had sacrificed much for the sake of this cause.

From out his window, Regis could see a few bodies as they dangled from their nooses. The criminals had breathed their last yesterday, under deafening cheers and applause. They were now bathed in the luminescence of the moon, with only a pack of ravens to serve as company. On a whim, Regis glided out of his home to offer the dead men a silent vigil. The birds pecking at their softened flesh whipped their heads to inspect the newcomer. Regis returned their stares, and a quiet understanding passed between vampire and corvids. The ravens busied themselves once more with their nauseous task, while the barber-surgeon steadied his gaze toward the cadavers; from the depths of his memory, the familiar sights and sounds of guilt resurfaced, flooding him with the remembered taste of Dettlaff’s blood in his mouth.

Regis’ right hand twitched. On one finger, a ring depicting four serpents intertwined together glinted silver in the moonlight.

 _Promise me you won’t ever drink from a human again, Emiel_ , the Humanist had told him before the two had parted ways. Following these words, Regis’ master had gently put a ring in his pupil’s open palm—a ring that happened to be the old vampire’s only memento of the homeworld. _Promise me you won’t take another life unless you really have to._

Regis’ thorax constricted painfully. On his torso, a brooch in the shape of a moth was pinned right above the heart.

 _I promise we will find your beloved Rhena_ , Regis had said to Dettlaff. The latter had simply brought a hand to his chest, where a lovely ornamental pin was fastened to his coat. _My friend Geralt is not a mindless killer. I assure you he will understand your plight. We will save your lover from the monsters who hold her prisoner—and you will never have to kill again._

Despite all of his efforts, Regis had broken both of his promises.

The vampire grit his teeth together, accidently grazing the skin on the inside of his cheek. The bitterness of his own blood on his tongue only accentuated the turmoil now seizing control of Regis’ entire body. In front of his eyes, the dead men on the scaffold appeared to have vanished; in their stead, hundreds of exsanguinated corpses littered the town square in a morbid tableau. At their forefront was Dettlaff’s unmoving form. His lifeless face was frozen still in the expression he’d worn as Regis had taken his place at Geralt’s side: a soft, almost innocent sort of confusion.

With a growl, Regis fell to his knees, grabbing his head with both hands. His claws dug into his scalp, and blood trickled down his brow, filling his eyesight with crimson. The ravens took flight in a scatter of wings and circled around Regis, their croaks forming a dissonant symphony that tore through the empty night air. A feral hiss filtered through the vampire’s clenched fangs. Regis’ throat was _burning_ ; oh! if only someone could have had the misfortune to walk into the town square at the present moment, then—

 _No!_ shouted a voice much like the Humanist’s. _Don’t finish that thought! Don’t even think about it!_

Despite the agony of his rising bloodlust, Regis’ gaze never wavered from the pile of dead bodies seemingly occupying the whole of the plaza.

 _They are dead!_ he wanted to scream. _They are dead and I am not! They are beyond my capacity to help! What else do you want me to do?_

 _You know the answer,_ cried the ravens. Their voices reminded him of Dettlaff, but also of Milva and Cahir and Angoulême. _You’ve known it for years._ Their voices resounded with a gruff authority that brought Geralt to mind, but also with a kindness that somehow made Regis think of Dandelion. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start LIVING YOUR LIFE._

With a gasp, Regis stumbled backward as if someone had rammed into him with a heavy bludgeon. For a moment, the vampire laid sprawled on his back, unwilling to budge a muscle. Above his head, the flock of ravens had flown away—had he only imagined them? He ran both hands across his face, a faint sob-like chuckle escaping his mouth. An eternity seemed to pass; finally, Regis wobbled back to his feet, rubbing his weary eyes with a moan.

In front of him, the cruel hallucination was gone. Only the gallows and the dead men swaying on the nooses remained.

In the distance, orange light was peeking through the thatched roofs and stone columns of Vicovaro. Regis let out a little laugh. “It’s… morning. It’s really morning.” A hint of delight coloured his words. He’d never been so happy to see the sunrise.

“Hey, you!” a voice called out. Regis whirled on his feet and saw a pair of guardsmen approaching him. “What are you doing outside this early? Curfew’s not been lifted yet!”

Regis smiled a little too widely. The two men recoiled instinctively.

“I, er,” hesitated the vampire. “I believe I was… sleepwalking?”

The oldest of the guards sniffed the air around Regis. “You drunk or something? You know you could get in a lot of trouble if you were caught loiterin’ around after getting pissed.”

Regis’ eyes focused on a blood vessel pulsating beneath the skin of the man’s neck. He could not help but feel a little thrill of triumph when he realized that the temptation of the warm liquid coursing through the man’s throat held no sway over him.

“No, sir. As a matter of principle, I do not drink. I would rather keep my wits about me.” Regis punctuated the end of his sentence with another tired chuckle. The guardsmen looked at him as if he’d just escaped from a madhouse.

The sky was aglow with shades of purple and red that would have made an artist weep with envy. Around Regis, the city was waking up along with the sun, the inane noises of everyday human life almost becoming like music to the vampire’s ears.

“You see,” Regis said proudly, “as a dear friend of mine used to say, I would rather live as a man and not as a beast.”


	3. hintha

Today marked the first anniversary of Regis’ new life in Vicovaro.

A record number of patients had asked for the barber-surgeon’s services on this particular day. From dawn til dusk, Regis had found himself with no moment to spare: there were teeth to pull out, broken bones to set and open wounds to stitch. Chatty old-timers, headstrong youths and grim-faced veterans all darkened the doorway to Regis’ clinic, each and every leaving the premises in better shapes than when they had come in. In a way, their smiles and kind words were better payment than the cold hard florens they pressed into the vampire’s hands.

When night came, Regis retreated to his bedchamber with a bottle of newly made mandrake cordial. He took a few sips as he endeavoured to describe the—admittedly pretty mundane—happenings of the previous hours.

Outside, the full moon had risen high up in the sky, blessing the now dormant city with a lovely silver sheen. As always, Regis felt his blood quicken in response to the astral body’s call. The last time he’d gone on a nightly flight had been in Dettlaff’s company. The thought of his friend tugged at Regis’ heartstrings—it was not a harsh, violent wrench of a pull, as it had been only a couple of months prior, but more like the mild, but necessary discomfort of gravity. The vampire put down his quill and journal in a solemn gesture. Still, when he leaped out the window, it was with an insolent, jubilant grin.

Ash-coloured fog enveloped Regis’ form as he spread his wings. Below him, a few stragglers roamed the streets of Vicovaro, quite brazenly ignoring the city’s curfew. Above him was a sea of stars; with the enthusiasm of one much younger, Regis soared higher, as if he could reach and touch the celestial canopy. He closed his eyes, savouring the feel of moonlight on his back and relishing in the gentle caress of the nightly wind on his fur.

When Regis opened his eyes again, it was to catch sight of a flash of green coming from somewhere below. The vampire shifted his wings a little to decrease his current speed. In the alleyway where the strange light had flared, there was now the slight form of a woman. Her face was hidden by a hood, making it impossible for Regis to identify her. Curious, the barber-surgeon dropped to a nearly roof, taking the appearance of a wisp of fog to conceal his approach (he very much doubted the stranger would have been keen on having an enormous bat swooping down on her).

The young woman dusted off her cloak before removing her hood. Her ashen hair was pulled into a messy bun behind her head, and a long, jagged scar ran the length of her cheek just below her left eye. Regis nearly plummeted off his hiding spot from sheer shock when he recognized her.

“…Cirilla?” said Regis as he took human form once more. “You’re Cirilla of Cintra, are you? Geralt’s Cirilla?”

The pale-haired woman promptly spun on her heel at the sound of his voice. She drew her sword, dropping into a battle stance that was achingly familiar to Regis.

“Who are you?” she said sharply. “How do you know my name? And what…” The tip of her blade wavered a little. “What are you doing up on a _roof?_ ”

If he could have blushed, Regis would have gone red. “Er…”

“Wait…” The young woman lowered her weapon. “It’s you! You’re Geralt’s vampire friend Regis! The one I was looking for!”

“You,” a stupefied Regis said, “you were looking for _me?_ ”

Cirilla nodded. “Can you come down? That way, I won’t have to shout everything I have to say at the top of my lungs.”

Regis jumped down the roof, his black robes billowing around him. Cirilla sheathed her sword, giving him a tentative smile.

“I recognize you now. You do look a little older, though.”

“Side-effect of dying and resurrecting in quick succession, I suppose,” said Regis. “You said you were looking for me?”

Cirilla rummaged through her bag and found an envelope that had been decorated with a dainty touch. “Dandelion says he’s been trying to contact you for months. Did you get any of his letters?”

The barber-surgeon blinked. “N-No, I did not.” Somehow, he could barely believe it. Possibly, Regis had been too mired in his own misery to entertain the idea that his old travelling companions might be thinking of him.

“That’s what he thought too. So that’s why he decided to send me instead to give you his message.” She scratched the back of her head with a sheepish expression. “I’ve got, er, _teleportation_ abilities. I can go from one end of the continent to the other in the blink of an eye. It’s… rather useful in situations such as these.”

Regis returned her smile, amused by the candor of her admission. “I doubt I’ve ever heard more humble words from a practitioner of magic.”

“I’m not really a mage—well, it’s complicated.” Cirilla shuffled on her feet before handing over the letter to him. “Just… just read what Dandelion has to tell you.”

Rather than pry into her affairs further, Regis did as she asked.

 _My dear Regis_ , Dandelion had written, _how could it be that you resurrect from the dead yet fail to pay me a single visit? It will not do, my vampiric friend, it simply will not do. Let me give you some advice, from one world-travelled soul to another: you should leave all matters of broody contemplation to Geralt. He is an expert in the topic, I assure you._

Slowly, Regis’ gaunt features became illuminated by a slight smile. He could almost hear the charming inflections of Dandelion’s voice in his ears.

_Our mutual friend Zoltan Chivay does not quite believe my account of your secret bloodsucking inclinations. For a bit of fun, I would suggest that you shatter his illusions in the grandest manner you can imagine, the next time we will all meet—something along the lines of your little trick with the red-hot horseshoe, perhaps. He has taken to calling me a liar in public, an act that damages my professional reputation—and breaks my heart as a poet and teller of stories._

_But, as your vast intellect must have gathered, I have not written to you to blather about Zoltan’s lacking imagination. Why, the one penning down the very letter you read happens to be the happiest man alive! A few weeks past, I have asked for the hand of the loveliest wildflower in Novigrad, the most exquisite and talented trobairitz in our troubled times, the brightest star of the Northern sky—_

“He goes on for a bit like that,” Cirilla explained as Regis glanced at her with raised brows. “It’s Dandelion, what did you expect?”

Regis skipped to the next paragraph.

_Well, my demand goes as thus: I would be honored to invite you, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy (did I get all of your names right?) to the union of one Julian Alfred Pankratz, viscount de Lettenhove (the proud author of the letter you hold in your hands) and the delightful Priscilla, also known as Callonetta. I simply enjoin you to cease your existential angsting and come to the reception; after all, I would have never obtained the privilege and joy of Priscilla’s company if it hadn’t been for your efficient care as a surgeon._

_It is my sincere heart’s desire to see that ugly old mug of yours, crow’s feet and all, on the most important day of my life. I have sent Ciri in hopes that her pleasant personality will play in favour of my argument._

Below, another sentence was scratched out: _…and because her teleportation abilities will definitely be useful in bringing you home in time for the celebrations._

_Yours truly,_

_Your friend Dandelion._

Another letter fell out of the envelope. A few words were penned in Geralt’s handwriting. _You should come_ , Geralt simply said. _Otherwise, Dandelion will cry._

Cirilla read her father’s message from over Regis’ shoulder and gave a snort. “Eloquent as always, I see.”

Regis chuckled. “Simple as it may be, I can’t argue with that rhetoric. I cannot make a bridegroom weepy on his wedding day. It would not be decent.”

“So, is that your decision? You’ll come?”

Regis curtsied, earning himself a laugh from Ciri. “Then, lead the way, milady. But first, might we stop at my humble abode? There are a few things I would bring along for the journey.”

As they walked down the now nearly deserted streets of Vicovaro, Cirilla began to speak. “You might not know it, but Geralt misses you quite terribly. I… I think he still feels guilty about that business with your friend back in Toussaint…”

Regis felt a dull pang at her statement. Again, the memory of Dettlaff’s anguished, imploring face stirred to the surface of his mind. “Has… has he said anything to that effect?”

“It’s Geralt,” replied Ciri. “Of course he hasn’t. But his old witcher’s tricks don’t work on me. I always know what he’s thinking. His face is like an open book to me.”

“A useful skill, to be sure,” Regis said fondly.

Ciri sent him a knowing gaze. “I spent my formative years being raised by a bunch of emotionally-stunted witchers. I know my craft.” She suddenly snapped her fingers. “Oh! I just remembered, but Yennefer is really looking forward to meeting you. Well, er, technically, you’ve already met, but…”

Regis nodded sagely. “Vilgefortz got into the way.”

“Yeah. Arsehole.” Ciri spat on the ground. “Let’s hope he’s rotting in hell, the nasty bugger. Oh, and Dandelion’s sweetheart Priscilla also wants to see you. She’d like to thank you for saving Dandelion’s life back in the war.”

“I… why, this is quite kind of her.”

“Yennefer’s grateful too, since you’ve always been such a good friend to Geralt, especially when she herself couldn’t be there for him. And, uh, I think there’s also a bit of professional curiosity to her interest, but she just wouldn’t tell me.”

“That does not surprise me,” said Regis. “By definition, sorcerers and sorceresses are scholars of the highest calibre. Of course she would be curious to know more about my kind.”

By then, they had reached Regis’ home. Cirilla examined the interior of his clinic with inquisitive eyes; she wrinkled her nose at the shelf where he stored his strongest-smelling herbs and grinned like a child at the sight of the still he used to make his alcoholic brews.

When Regis moved to the second floor, she followed after him and said, “You know, Dandelion said something about you making the best damn homemade liquor on the entire continent. Is it true?”

Regis showed her the half-empty bottle of mandrake cordial. “I can’t say if it will be to your taste, but yes, I happen to be quite proud of my product.”

Ciri took a sip, then grimaced. “Ugh! He wasn’t kidding when he said it’s some strong stuff!” She swallowed another mouthful. “But I admit the taste is rather subtle. It’s definitely like nothing I’ve ever had!”

Regis grabbed another flask he’d hidden near his cot. “Then, I am glad. Do you think Dandelion might like a bottle of my brew as a wedding present?”

“Of course!” said Ciri. “The only one who might get happier at the idea of getting some booze for his wedding is Zoltan.”

“Then, mandrake brew it shall be.” Regis stuffed the bottle down a pillow and begun to put some personal effects into another bag. Soon, he found himself staring at his journal. Holding the chronicled account of the years that followed his second rebirth brought a slew of conflicting feelings at the forefront of Regis’ mind. On one hand, this small leather-bound book had been the solitary witness to months of rage and sadness and fear. On the other, it had also been his sole companion throughout many long nights spent hoping for the coming of dawn.

“You know,” came Ciri’s voice, “I’ve never thanked you for what you did at Stygga Castle.”

Regis shrugged. “I… I could not let Geralt march in there alone. He would have been slaughtered.”

“But don’t you see? You could have stayed far away from all this trouble, but you didn’t. You went with Geralt and you remained with him when he needed you most.” Ciri shook her head slightly. “You had never met me before, yet you fought Vilgefortz’s soldiers so I could escape. You helped Geralt and Yennefer kill the bastard—and nearly died in the process.”

“Cirilla, I was doing what needed to be done—”

“All my life I had people dying for my sake. People I loved. People I’d do anything to see just one more time. I know that kind of choice isn’t made lightly.” She turned her face away, and Regis could see tears glimmering in her green eyes. “Because without my grandmother or Vesemir or Mistle or all the others who followed Geralt to Stygga… without _you_ … I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

Regis could not find the words to respond to such a declaration. He only gaped at Cirilla in a manner that must have been comical, for she burst into laughter soon afterward.

“Don’t look so glum!” she told him, blinking back her tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up such painful things.” Ciri reached out to him, palm open. “So, are you ready? Travelling with me isn’t as terrible as taking your usual magical portal, I promise.”

Through the window the sunrise peered out from behind her, making it so she was shrouded in a halo. Cirilla was beaming at Regis, still holding out her hand. The vampire slowly, gingerly took it, and she wrapped her fingers around his. He smiled, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the burst of energy from her spell diffused through his chest. And in a flash of green light, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm not showing it, but the moment Regis arrives to Novigrad, he gets tackle-hugged by Geralt, Dandelion, Zoltan, Yennefer and Ciri (and why not Triss and Priscilla too, for good measure?).


End file.
